


Dunkirk

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Military, Rescue, Slight spoilers for eponimous film, WWII, action adventure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-04 18:52:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11561232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: Dunkerque, France, May, 1940. Merlin is a Spitfire pilot in need of rescue. The Pendragons own a seaworthy vessel that can make a little difference in the sorts of one man's life.





	1. Chapter 1

28 May 1940, Deal, England

The newscast over, Morgana turned off the radio and put the tray down. The tea things shook and milk spilt from the jug, staining the patties underneath. He stain spread slowly, in a circular patter which she observed as it grew. Could she read destiny in the shapes? Could she divine her future, those of others? With shaking hands, her lip bitten to the quick so it stung, she served the beverage, still scalding hot, father getting his first, serving Arthur second. She'd always done it like this. It was a bit of a ritual she had started observing when Ygraine had died. She said, “We must do something.”

“About what?” Her father grabbed his mug by the handle, but didn't lift it to his mouth.

Morgana couldn't believe Uther could have paid so little attention. The announcer had been pretty clear. He'd cited numbers and statistics, described Britain's defeat. It had been resounding. How could anyone not be appalled by that, by the loss of life. She was inclined to think her father callous. “About Dunkirk. All those men waiting to be rescued.”

“It's tragic,” Arthur said, looking at the radio with a frown, as though it was culpable of the offence itself. 

“If the War Office can't do anything about those stranded men.” Uther pinched his lips. “I don't see what we can do.”

“We have a boat.” The Ygraine was a cuddy cabin boat with a front bow, rod lockers, a trolling motor system, and live wells. She wasn't the biggest of vessels but she was spacious, easily manoeuverable, and particularly seaworthy. “Dunkirk is right across. You can almost see France from the beach on a clear day.”

Uther scowled. “And what does that have to do with anything?”

“We can sail the boat to Dunkirk, take a few men on board--” Wasn't that the problem, Morgana considered. 400.000 thousand men to evacuate and not enough navy vessels to do the job. “And turn back towards England.”

“That's absurd.” Uther slammed a hand on the table, making the tea things rattle and more milk split. “You know what's going on down there right now; it's called War. You're not going into war, Morgana.”

“Why not?” Morgana crossed her arms and tapped her foot.

“First of all because you're a woman,” Uther said, his tone flat. “Secondly because people die in wars. Thirdly because I already fear Arthur being called up any day. You won't add up to my fears.”

What had Arthur to do with her! Why hadn't Uther considered she knew what sort of risky situation she was putting herself in. She was old enough and wise enough to have taken all that into account. She was no fool and didn't appreciate being taken for one. “I'm dead set on it.”

Though Uther looked daggers at him, Arthur opened his mouth to speak. “I think Morgana isn't wrong.” Uther made to object but Arthur spoke over him. “Those men are dying under shellfire. And if they're not rescued, the Germans will get to them. Those are Nazis. If they get to our boys, they won't be nice deaths.”

“I understand that.” Uther curled his palm into a fist. “But a rescue operation is up to the military. Let the Navy deal with it.”

“We could make a difference.” Arthur argued the point in a calm voice. “Even if it's ten men more, it's ten more souls we've saved from the line of fire.”

Morgana didn't understand how Arthur wasn't shouting, how he wasn't making his point more energetically. But he was right, so Morgana couldn't oppose him. “That's what I've been trying to say. We have a boat. Our men out there need boats. I don't know why we're not already off.”

“You won't go.” Uther thundered the words, then looked from Arthur to Morgana with a withering expression. “I forbid you to use the Ygraine for that!”

“But Uther!” Morgana's voice soared.

“But Father!” Arthur's voice was much more modulated. He briefly made eyes at Morgana, conjuring her to stop, before directing his pleading gaze at their father.

“I'll hear no more about it.” Father stood, letting his tea and crumpets untouched, and made it out of the parlour with a slam to the door. 

Morgana sent a dish flying after him. It impacted the closed door whole and shattered when it hit the floor, shards flying everywhere, jagged pieces of china like so many white stains on the red carpet. “Why is he like that!” She wanted to go after Father and scream her head off till he listened, till he said they could go. Till he gave her her blessing and saw how right Morgana was. To be commended really. She had enough good reasons to list off, god knew. But he was stubborn, bloody unmoveable.

“Because he loves us.”

Morgana was on the point of tears. She only gulped them back because she didn't want Arthur to see her so weak. “If he did, he'd understand how important this is for us.”

“It's risky.” Arthur lifted his shoulder in a half shrug. “He only sees that.”

Morgana saw red. How could Arthur take Father's behaviour in stride? How could he accept it so easily? She wanted to fight tooth and nail to be allowed act, to do more than sit at home and worry, when the men went off to fight. Arthur was so complacent. And yet he could be one of those men soon. When the letter arrived... That was why she wanted to do it. The men dying out there in France were just like her brother. One day soon he might be in the same position and then god alone knew she'd be praying for someone like herself to do the right thing by him. “So you're giving up then?”

Arthur's eyes glinted and glittered with merriment though his mouth pursed with the offence. “Who said that?”


	2. Chapter 2

The sun was shining yellow over a sea that shimmered like gold. Behind Merlin was land, solid, brown and green, white cliffs cresting the oceans in a dazzling shock of white. Past the green downs, the lighthouses, the beaches, was white foam rolling up towards land. Shreds of clouds floated past. They clustered together like spun sugar, like candyfloss. They unspooled at the margins like broken thread. Despite their presence, visibility was nearly ninety per cent. They would have no cloud cover for the whole of the mission. Nothing but clear, yolky skies ahead. That made no difference. They would be spotted anyway. 

The fuselage of Squadron's Leader's plane, Belle, for luck, shone when the sun hit its rear. “Squadron Leader to Squadron Two,” his captain's voice made itself heard over the radio. “Do you copy me?”

Merlin strapped the mask to his mouth and spoke into it. “I copy you, Squadron Leader.”

“Squadron Two, I want you to watch out today.” Even though tinny the message was fraught with worry. “Take down as many Messerschmitts as you can, give our boys cover, but remember to watch that fuel gauge of yours.”

Merlin had been known to get ever so close to running empty, coming so far as emergency landing his Spitfire on the Downs. But it had been worth it. He'd got two Germans down during that mission. This one mattered more to him though. It wasn't about downing other planes, which was something that in his heart of hearts he didn't like. It was about providing cover for their troops, making sure they weren't sitting ducks. Their boys were trying to make it home, after all. He'd give them all the help he could. Merlin liked to think of himself as a guardian sprite up in the air. That didn't mean he wouldn't watch out. “Got you, Squadron Leader.”

The Channel looked peaceful and flat, a mirror for the empty skies. The sky he was fending stayed azure, arcing towards the horizon line like glass. If there wasn't a war out there, you'd think this was an ordinary spring day, a holiday. It was all so still and perfect. But if there wasn't a war, Merlin wouldn't be flying such an expensive piece of machinery. He wouldn't be about to destroy bombers. He would be back at home, minding the farm, milking the cows, repairing the fence. There was a war on, so Merlin was piloting a Spitfire all the way to Dunkirk.

“Squadron two, you've got a Messerschmitt in the wings,” Squadron Leader said. “I repeat. You've got a Mett in the wings.”

“Got it, Squadron Leader.” The plane was flying in his wake so Merlin couldn't see it, but he didn't doubt its presence. It was there all right. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Watch out,” Squadron Leader said. Before changing course and making it straight south, he added, “See you in a while.”

Merlin didn't want the German plane in his wings. He didn't particularly want to be downed either. So he dove and veered. Sure enough the Messerschmitt became visible, its fuselage new, the swastika painted on it shining in the sun. “Right,” Merlin said. “Two can play at this game.”

Following Merlin, the Messerschmitt's pilot dove sideways.

Merlin knew it wanted him back in its wing but he wasn't allowing such easy out manoeuvring. Pulling on the control ring, Merlin lifted up, heading west, so he had the Messerschmitt in his flank instead of behind him.

The Messerschmitt fired. 

Merlin ducked. “Oh no. You're not driving holes into my fuselage.”

It was time to counterattack or he'd never be rid of this thorn in the side. Merlin slowed down, then pulled into a tight turn. As expected, the Mett fighter couldn't follow him, but stayed ahead and behind in a position from which he couldn't well fire at Merlin. Good old Rolls Royce engines. They had done the trick for Merlin. When he had the Mett in his sights, Merlin fired. He didn't put holes in the fuselage, but he caused the pilot to gain altitude, putting distance between them.

That might have bought Merlin some minutes, but that was not what he had in mind. A few minutes' grace wouldn't buy him safety. Only downing the enemy would. 

He went up, the nose of his Spitfire pointing towards the sky. He manoeuvered it behind the Mett, but its pilot saw him and swept sideways. Pressing the gun button, Merlin fired, feeling the kick of his eight Brownings as they drilled the Messerschmitts. He couldn't tell if he'd hit his target, for the Mett continued flying on, putting himself ahead of Merlin.

Because of how the Spitfire was built, Merlin couldn't see ahead of him. He had to fall behind of the Mett and all to the side so as to be able to sight it at all. Juggling his controls, Merlin made the Spitfire buck in the air, so that the German passed underneath him.

Merlin's thumbs hovering, he waited for the Mett to move into his sights. Once in position, Merlin opened fire. This time red flames spurted from the Mett's mid-section, sending the German plane whirling about, sliding off on one wing with flames erupting out of it. It turned and turned, and lost altitude, twisting and turning as it did, then the hulk went alight and the aircraft impacted the sea. 

One enemy down. The notion didn't make Merlin glad. He felt no pleasure in it, in curtailing life. Only the thought of defending his home made him act. He didn't do it for patriotism though. He merely had to think of his mother, of his uncle, their defencelessness, and acting became, if not easy, at least possible. Even so he said a prayer for the fallen pilot. The words didn't come easy. Merlin didn't often go to church, but he used a few that came from the heart. 

Zooming upwards again, Merlin made for higher altitude, looking for bombers, for the French coastline. If he squinted, he could make it out, a black pencil mark at the rim of the sea. Peering down at the ocean below Merlin saw another plane, at three o' clock, German make, a Wulf 190. It flipped and came right out of the sun.

Using his rudders, Merlin nosed upwards, trying for the Wulf's flank, swinging his own aircraft from side to side in order to keep it in his sights. Before he could fire, the Wulf pulled away sideways, finding Merlin's blind spot, gaining altitude again. Merlin heard the hit on the fuselage before he could place the German plane, bullets ricocheting off the cockpit's glass of his own plane. It didn't yield, being bulletproof, but Merlin couldn't suppress a shiver anytime it happened. It was so close. It wasn't nice thinking about what would happen if the glass didn't protect him.

Trying his go-to tactic again, Merlin caused his Spitfire to slow down. But the Wolf closed in on him, and fired, Merlin jerking his aircraft out of the line of fire. But he got hit and Merlin started rocketing downwards as all the gauges he had went haywire. “Right,” Merlin said, trying to regain altitude. “Right.”

Merlin corrected the angle, but he was losing fuel and altitude. As he didn't want to go down with it hovering close, he still made an attempt to fire at the Wolf. The Wolf flicked over, breaking in two large pieces directly up in the air.

But that was little consolation, for Merlin still went down. As much as he throttled and pulled, he continued to lose altitude, the sea coming closer and closer the further he flew. 

He was crashing; that was it. He could only attempt to do it in a way that made survival possible. The fuselage shaking and hissing, he lined up the Spitfire with the water. It came closer and closer. His limbs stiff from holding on to the controls, Merlin smiled when he realised his plane had stopped its nose dive. 

Moment by moment it was righting itself, coming level with the sea. “Now be smooth,” he said. “Be very smooth.”

The belly of the plane going down first, he hit water with a body-jerking splash. Blacking out for a second, Merlin let himself feel the impact his in ribs and in his legs. He only allowed himself that one moment. He had salt water seeping into cockpit, freezing his ankles and then his shins.

With his fingers, Merlin felt for the cockpit release lever. After a few seconds scrabbling, he found it and pulled on it. The cockpit flooded. The water was up to his stomach now. The spitfire was sinking nose first. 

Okay, all right, calm down. The cockpit was constructed to slide open.

It wouldn't.

Merlin hit the glass. It didn't yield. This time he didn't let a second go by. He tried to force the cockpit glass open. It wouldn't budge. Merlin pummelled it again. It slid free a couple of inches. As the cockpit was half submerged, more water poured in. It touched his chest with its cold fingers. He fished for his gun. Used the butt to ram at the cockpit.

The glass was bullet proof, and apparently also unbreakable. As the water climbed – it was up to his chin now – Merlin hammered at the glass above him. When he went under, he continued to pound at it. Movements slowed by his being submerged, he banged and banged at it.

But his lungs were getting smaller, his chest hurt. Underwater he couldn't breathe. His body hurt with it. His movements got more sluggish. He lost sight of the cockpit. His vision greyed. One last try. One last...


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur heard the distinctive noise before he saw the Spitfire. When he did, he watched it arc across the sky, leaving a white trail in its wake. He smiled and waved it off with a silent blessing, hoping its pilot would be successful on this run. But then a second plane appeared, this one unmistakeably Luftwaffe. After a dog fight, the second plane burst apart while the first started on a nose dive.

“Morgana,” Arthur called out to his sister in the cabin. “Make for that Spitfire over there.”

“Plotting a new course.” Morgana put herself to the wheel, uncharacteristically not brooking any opposition to Arthur's proposition.

The Ygraine veered eastwards towards the falling plane. The wind in his hair, Arthur watched as they neared the plane, which by now was low above the water. When it entered it, a big splash wave rose, which Arthur felt the echoes of on his face as salt sprayed on him. 

The plane sunk fast. Arthur was expecting the pilot to emerge any moment, but he didn't. When the whole cockpit had been under for more than a minute, Arthur knew he had to act. He stalked into the cabin, opened the glass cabinet, and took the hatchet from off its brackets.

Wielding it, he went up on deck again. He shouted to Morgana, “Close in the gap with the plane!”

Morgana steered the vessel as close to it as possible.

When he was just over it, Arthur could see the pilot trapped underneath, could make him out as he struggled. More motivated than before, Arthur hammered the cockpit with his hatchet. The hatchet bouncing off the glass, he made no dent. Aware that he couldn't let the pilot die, Arthur redoubled his efforts, striking away with the blade until the glass cobwebbed with cracks. Seeing it yield, Arthur hit away again, until the glass broke and a man swam up.

Grabbing his arm, Arthur helped haul him up on the boat. Dripping, the pilot landed on deck, his uniform sodden, his expression lost. He was tall and lanky, still wearing his leather flying helmet, his goggles hanging loosely around his neck. His life preserver vest covered his water-laden jacket. 

“Welcome aboard the Ygraine,” Arthur said, putting down the hatchet to shake the pilot's hand. “I'm Arthur.”

The pilot seemed lost in a reverie he only shook out of with effort. “Ah, yes, I'm Merlin. Lieutenant Emrys.” 

When the smile and handshake came, Arthur was stoked. Despite his ordeal and the wet rat look Merlin seemed like a lovely, kind man. As Merlin's smile deepened, grateful and full of warmth, Arthur flushed. “I'll get you a blanket.”

Bounding into the cabin, Arthur grabbed a blanket from the pile Morgana had stashed there before. He went back up on deck. “Here,” he said, wrapping the item around Merlin's shoulders. “It'll get wet too but it's better than nothing.”

“I'm not complaining.” Merlin's lips quirked. “A wet blanket is better than drowning, believe me.”

Arthur had no doubt that was true. “What happened out there?”

“A Wulf struck me down.” Merlin shrugged his shoulders in a gesture that hid their heft. “There was some kind of release lever malfunction.”

“I noticed that.” Arthur had had his heart in his mouth throughout. “I willed you to make it.”

“I did.” Merlin sat on the stern bench seat and removed his helmet. “Thanks to you.”

Arthur felt the burden of it. He thought the two of them were now connected in a way that went deeper than mere acquaintanceship. He was sure he and Merlin were now tied together in double knots. It was, if he thought of it in a certain way, almost fated to happen, some sort of destiny that had bound them, that had made Arthur be there at the right moment in time. He was glad he had saved this man's life. He was happy Morgana had thought to take the Ygraine out. He wouldn't change what had happened for the world. “I, um.” Arthur ruffled his own hair. “Why don't I make you some tea? It'll work some warmth back into you.”

Later, as they neared France, they sat together, looking at the horizon line. They shared long silent moments, watching birds swoop by, witnessing the churn of the sea. They didn't feel the need to speak, the need to make noise, until Merlin had long finished his cup of Earl Gray.

“I was wondering,” Merlin said. “What are you doing out here?”

Arthur looked to sea. It was all around them, in its spirited embrace. “My sister and I meant to use the Ygraine--” He patted the side rail of the boat. It was fitting that a vessel named after his mother should be put to such good use. “--to ferry Dunkirk soldiers back.”

Eyes widening with surprise and understanding, Merlin said, “That's good of you.”

“That's the least I could do.” Arthur tasted the blood as he bit his lower lip. “I'm not serving.”

“Not called up yet, eh.” Merlin hummed, his face grim.

Arthur might have chosen not to share. But it came easy with Merlin. Perhaps it was because he'd rescued him from death; perhaps it was because Merlin was a twin soul of sorts, but Arthur didn't feel he should maintain with him the reserve he usually kept around strangers. He sensed he didn't have to hide his feelings as he did from the world in general. “I'd have enlisted. But my father's a widower, and my sister...” Oh she was fiery and stubborn, but so headstrong she was bound to end up in trouble. “Needs me. But it's only a question of time before I--”

“Don't.” As they were sitting side by side, Merlin touched knees with him. “This war... It's not heroic. It's not beautiful. And it's not going to be over quickly.”

“I want--” I need, Arthur thought. “To lend a hand.” Not to watch his countrymen die while he did nothing. “To protect my people.”

Merlin nodded. “My mum has a small farm up in Writtle, Essex. She lives next door to my uncle.”

“Then you know.” Merlin was just like Arthur. Had to be.

“I also had a friend.” Merlin moistened his lips and stared into the void. “His name was Will. We were called up together. Went to training together. A Stuka got him four months ago.”

“It doesn't change a thing.” Arthur's compatriots were still dying and the Nazi threat had to be stopped. Arthur couldn't live with himself if it continued and he didn't do anything to contain it. He was just one man, true, but victory was built on individual effort, which became collective endeavour. “Sacrifices must be made.”

“It does change a lot of things,” Merlin said, his voice dry and low. “I'm not saying you should hide. But wait before you join. Killing brings no joy.”

“I know that.” Arthur had no lust for blood. “But I have a duty.”

Merlin inclined his head. “You must choose who to put first.”

Arthur looked to Morgana in the cabin. “What made you so wise?” he asked Merlin with a small smile of his own.

“I'm only a country bumpkin.” Merlin hugged his mug. 

Arthur wanted to deny it. Merlin seemed like a bit of a hero to him. In his quiet, unprepossessing way he certainly was. But he had no time to say everything he wanted, which amounted to bookfuls of private considerations he almost felt too bashful to voice. Thanks to Morgana's efficient piloting skills, they had neared Dunkirk.

Men crowded a makeshift jetty built out of the debris of the real one. They waited in line, jostling each other, brushing against each other, stamping their feet to stay awake. More lines of men thronged the strand, kits abandoned in their wake and lying in the sand. The ruins of a destroyer lay in the harbour; pieces of it floating far and wide. Charred Jeep carcasses were scattered in ruins along the coastline.

As she came closer to it, the Ygraine was cheered. She wasn't the only vessel piloting towards the old harbour. Tens of other fishing boats were making for it, receiving as many blessings for their presence as the crew of the Ygraine was.

While Arthur and Morgana assisted soldiers on board, Merlin helped them. The rescued were wet, pale, fear-etched on their faces. They came aboard until the Ygraine could contain no more men. They were a tired and confused bunch, tested by war in ways made visible by scars and looks, but thankful for being saved. Only when not another soul could uploaded did the Ygraine steer back towards England, leading its human cargo to safety.

Once they had transported the men back to Deal, after Arthur and Morgana had received thanks, Merlin disembarked. While Morgana moored the boat, Arthur joined Merlin.

“So,” he said, “you're probably back off to base.”

Merlin tilted his head in assent. “Yeah.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you.” Arthur sidled from side to side. 

Merlin shook his hand. “Me too.” Ducking his head, he looked at his boots. “I hope we meet again.”

Emboldened, heart racing like a plane's engine, Arthur took a step forward. “Let's make it so.”

Merlin arched an eyebrow. “With the war on?”

“You'll get leave.” Arthur imagined Merlin could. “I live at Camelot house." For the time being at least. Enrollment time would come for him. "Everybody knows it here. There's a pub not far away.”

“In a month's time,” Merlin said. “ Whatever happens.”

Arthur slapped Merlin's shoulder. “Whatever happens.”

He watched Merlin walk the length of the jetty till he got smaller and smaller in the distance. Only after he'd disappeared, he rejoined Morgana on the Ygraine where she lay at berth.


End file.
